The Last by Gmariam
Story Notes:
Many thanks to my lovely beta, Natalie/hestiajones! Thank you for looking this over and for your great suggestions!
I am alone, for I am the last. The last of my family, of my generation, of my kind.
My name is Margaret Grace Potter, and I am the last witch in England.
I am determined to make my way to the Ministry of Magic. My mother worked there, in the Department of Mysteries. I visited it once, just before the Great Plague began, and I remember the Veil more than anything. The tattered black curtain, blowing in an invisible breeze; the voices, whispering on the air, pulling me toward them. My mother had been furious to find me standing on the dais that day and had dragged me up the stairs with tears in her eyes. Even then I knew I would be back someday; I just did not think I would be going back alone.
I have traveled far. It has been a long, lonely journey. From my family's home in the north I have slowly made my way to London. I have walked, I have taken the train, I have even begged a few rides from strangers on lonely country roads. Not once did I use magic, because magic is gone, destroyed by blind hatred, bitter vengeance, and Muggle science. I am the last witch, but I can no longer use magic.
As I wander Muggle London, I am filled with anger. You would not know that a significant number of the population of England has disappeared and died. Life continues for the Muggles. Deep down, they are glad to be rid of us. The Great Plague frightened them, but it did not kill them. They were unaffected, but the mysterious deaths around them revealed our presence. And that frightened them. The Great Persecution buried that fear. Those witches and wizards who did not die from illness were rounded up, imprisoned, and executed. Few of us escaped; I suppose I am fortunate, but I do not feel any gratitude for my survival.
No, the Muggles do not care anymore. They are safe. They wake, go to work, enjoy their afternoon tea and evening brew. I am out of place, a member of a dangerous, extinct race, roaming a world to which I no longer belong, angry at its lack of compassion and alone with my loss.
A few passersby stare at me. I am dirty and run down, my clothing ripped and tattered, my hair a tangled mess of long braids. I am a shell of who I once was, but I don't care. This is my funeral march, my death walk. I feel no need to care about my appearance, no reason to wash or dress or even eat anymore. I feel nothing, except the burning desire to find the entrance to the Ministry of Magic and get to the Veil before I collapse on the street. I am determined to have the manner of my own death.
I finally come to the toilets once used to enter the Ministry. As I have no magic of my own, I wonder if they will work, or if I will simply drown in dirty toilet water instead. I push aside any doubts, step into the bowl, and pull the chain. I am rewarded with a loud whoosh and find myself whisked away. I hold my breath, a part of me hoping it is the end.
I come out in a fireplace in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It is much like I remember, only it is completely and utterly empty. Not a soul remains, and apparently the pest-control charms have held because there is not a single rat or spider to be seen either. It is dark and eerie; I suddenly feel haunted by the past, as if the spirits of all who have perished before follow me, damning me for what I am about to do.
I make my way past the security gate; there is no one to check my wand, but I have no wand to check. I left it long ago, tossing it into the ocean when it became obvious it no longer worked. It was a damning reminder of all that was lost, and I had no need to carry such baggage. I come to the lifts, and as with everything else in this dark graveyard, they are still working. Really, it has not been that long since the last witch or wizard probably set foot here. A year, perhaps. It started much earlier, but it was not so long ago that the Ministry was finally abandoned, and I realized I would soon be the last.
I take the first lift down to Level Nine. I remember all this from my one and only visit with my mother. It was ten years ago, and I had been excited as only nine-year-olds can be to come to work with my mother. I always felt badly that I had scared her so much by wandering off to the Death Chamber. That's what she had called it, and that's where I must return.
The circular room with the blue candles remains unchanged. I concentrate, hoping it will somehow take me to the chamber with the Veil. I push open the first door only to step into a room full of clocks.
I had considered the idea of turning back time, of seeing if there were something in the Department of Mysteries that would take me back far enough that I could stop the madman responsible for the Great Plague and the end of wizarding society. Yet I know enough about time travel and grandfather paradoxes, not to mention fate and destiny, to know that it wouldn't work. It couldn't. It was too late.
I step back into the room and try a second door. It is locked. My heart swells in my chest and I realize this must be the Room of Love. My mother had only been in there once; she had been unable to talk about it, and not because of any restrictions placed on its secrecy. It had simply affected her so strongly that she was unable to articulate what she had experienced. I wonder what I would see, what I would feel, if I were able to open the door. It has been so long since I have felt anything that perhaps I would feel nothing.
I try the next door and come out into a cavernous room lined with stone benches that march down toward a dais in the middle of the floor. And on that dais is my destination, my goal: the large stone archway that represents the thin veil between life and death. The black curtain is fluttering in the breeze just as I remember it. The whispers around me fill my ears with longing. And yet I hesitate, for at the foot of the archway sits a man, and he is alive.
I stumble in surprise, and my footsteps echo throughout the chamber. He glances up at me, his face blank, dull eyes unreadable. He is dark-skinned but pale; his once close-cropped hair a mess of tangles much like mine. He appears tall and well-built, but, like me, weak and underfed. He must be a wizard, but I do not know him. I am stunned at the realization that I am no longer alone, no longer the last.
For there he is, sitting in front of the Veil, and it seems obvious that he has come here for the same reason I have. Perhaps we can walk through together.
I slowly make my way down the stairs and back up onto the dais. I sit down not far from him, gazing at the stone archway that towers above us. He does not say a word, but studies me. I finally meet his gaze and speak, my voice rough with disuse.
"What are you waiting for?" I ask, inclining my head toward the Veil.
He is silent for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and low. It is a voice that sounds defeated by life, and yet there is still an edge of defiance.
"I don't know," he finally replies.
"How long have you been sitting here?" I ask.
He shrugs, his shoulders broad but thin. "Several days, I think."
I nod, for in some ways I do understand his hesitation. "Mind if I join you?"
He raises an eyebrow as he glances back at the black curtain. "I don't know that I'll be going."
"You've waited all this time and you're not going to do it?" I ask incredulously. "Why?"
"I don't know," he says again. "I was so certain this was what I wanted to do, but once I got here, I couldn't do it." He eyes me strangely. "And now you're here. Who are you?" he asks directly.
Normally I would bristle, my former friendly demeanor worn down to quick instincts by a life lived on the run. But I am so tired, so exhausted, I can only answer honestly. "Margaret Grace Potter. I thought I was the last witch in England."
He holds out his hand, and I take it, startled at the comfortable warmth of another human being's touch. If we hold hands slightly longer than usual for a first meeting, I am not embarrassed; it is only natural, when we have each been alone for so long.
"I'm Jason," he says. "Jason Adam Thomas. The last wizard in England. I think my grandfather knew your grandfather."
I snort, because my family name has followed me my entire life, and even now at the end it haunts me. "A lot of people knew my grandfather," I murmur.
"I think they were in the same house, same year," says Jason. "That's what my granddad said. I heard a lot of stories about the war growing up."
"Me, too," I reply. "Sometimes I thought they'd never stop."
"I'd give anything to hear them now," Jason murmurs, glancing at the Veil. "I never thought I'd live through my own stories."
"How did you survive?" I ask, not wanting to dwell on the past, on loved ones lost forever.
He shrugs again, rubbing his cheeks before leaning back. "I've no idea. I was sick, very sick, several years ago. I got the fever, but not the sleeping sickness. For some reason I recovered." He pauses, his eyes closing for a moment. "I lost my grandparents first, then my brother and sister. They didn't recover."
"What about your parents?" I ask. I know it's a personal question I shouldn't ask, but I feel as if I could guess the answer.
"Executed," he answers curtly, and he says no more. He does not need to. I stare at him, because that is exactly what happened to me.
Grandpa Harry had been the first to die, struck by the fever and then by the living nightmare as his body refused to sleep and his mind slowly shut down. Mum was delirious with fever when he lost his battle, and my grandmothers both fell ill not long after. My family died one by one, even Aunt Victoire and Aunt Dominique and Uncle Louis and their families, who had tried to flee to France, but had been stopped by the Ministry to avoid spreading the epidemic.
I had watched them all die and finally fell sick as well. Dad had nursed me through it, even as his own fever had raged fearfully and no one had been there to take care of him. Somehow we had survived…only to find ourselves in a world where magic had been revealed to the Muggles, and the Muggles had turned on us instead of offering help. We had gone on the run, living a hard life in hiding as the Great Persecution began to take the survivors one by one.
We had finally been captured, but my father had sacrificed himself so I could escape. He had been killed even as I ran for freedom, determined to live so his death would not be in vain. But soon everyone was dead, some from the Great Plague, others captured and executed. I was truly alone.
Until now.
"What have you been doing?" I ask, not sure why that is the question that comes from my mouth. It is easier than dwelling on the dead, I suppose. "Since then?"
His face is suddenly haunted, and I actually pull back a bit, startled by the pain reflected in his eyes.
"I killed him," he starts bluntly, watching me to see my reaction. I do not know who he is talking about, but nod at him to continue. It is obvious he needs to tell someone, and so I listen to his story, difficult as it might be to hear his confession.
"The one who did this to us," he says, his voice dripping with checked anger. "The Squib."
I stare at him, unable to believe what he is telling me. I am shocked, though not for the reasons he might assume: I will not condemn him, for I almost want to shout with joy. "How?" I ask. I don't need to ask why, because I certainly understand, and when does not matter now that the Squib is dead. I just want to know how he managed it, when magic is gone.
"It was easy, really," he says, and there is no emotion in his voice. "I tracked him down, found him living his perfect Muggle life in Cambridge. I watched his house, his family, his work. And then I ambushed him and brought him here."
"Why?" I ask, morbidly curious. "Why not just kill him then and there?"
"I wanted him to see what he ruined," he says, nodding to himself as if to justify his actions. "I wanted him to see what he had done—the world he had destroyed."
"What did he say?" I whisper, wanting to hear what the Squib had to say in spite of the hatred I feel for him.
"He laughed," Jason replies. "He laughed in my face, and then I killed him. I pushed him through the Veil, which was far easier a death than he deserved, I think."
I nod. "It was. He was a monster." I pause, not really knowing what else to say, other than the other question on my mind. "So why are you still here?"
"I don't know," he says. "I wanted him to see what he destroyed, to feel guilt and pain for it. He didn't." He looks at me again, his eyes strangely bright, begging me to understand. "I was going to go through when it was over. I meant to go through, but I couldn't. I can hear them all whispering, begging me to join them, but I can't do it."
"I thought I was the last," I whisper. "I came to walk through and join the rest."
"I wanted to as well, but then I wondered if that was taking the easy way out. And I thought that maybe I needed to stay, to keep our history alive somehow." He stops and gives me a sad smile. "To let someone know that he was gone. That it was over."
I impulsively reach out and squeeze his hand. "I know now," I say. "Thank you. Thank you for avenging our world."
He shakes his head. "It wasn't vengeance. It was justice. I have no doubt whatsoever the Wizengamot would have sentenced him to death, only he killed them all so I had to do it myself."
I think about how calm and rational he is and wonder if I could be the same if I had done what he had done. The Squib had destroyed our world, and as the Great Plague and Persecution had ground on, most witches and wizards uttered his name with vile epithets and curses attached. He had been born to magical parents, but without magical ability. His family had been one of the last to cling desperately to pureblood ideals and had rejected him. He had been forced to live in the Muggle world and had become one of their top scientists—so good he had created a virus that targeted only wizards and witches.
He had started the Great Plague as a way to destroy the world he could never be a part of.
As more and more members of the magical community had fallen ill, the Muggles had noticed. The wizarding world had no choice but to reveal themselves as they had begged for help. Yet instead of offering sympathy, the Muggles had experienced only fear, flames fanned by the bitterness of the man responsible. The Great Persecution had resulted in almost as many deaths – murders – as the sickness itself. Hundreds had been caught and tried and executed in gruesome Muggle ways, even as hundreds more died in their beds, victims of a virus targeted to their very genes.
Some had fallen sick but recovered, only to end up on the run. That was my story, and until I had stepped into the Death Chamber, I had been sure that I was the last to survive, alone and forgotten. Yet apparently Jason's story is my own, only he has righted the wrong done to our people before coming to finish his tale.
I stand and reach toward the Veil. I feel a peculiar sense of anticipation. This is it. This is the end of my journey. This is what the long months of solitary travel have led me to: my fate in my hands, my family just the other side of the ethereal black curtain.
Yet as I stand there, longing to step forward, a tiny spark that I was sure had died long ago slowly blossoms to life again. It starts with a skip of my heart, then a warmth that spreads through my body, to my hands and my feet and my face, then a sudden clearing of clouded vision. It is as if I have been living through a frigid winter and have finally emerged into the dawning spring. The feeling is strange, unfamiliar, but comfortable. It feels right—more right at that moment than throwing myself through the Veil.
It is hope.
I sit down abruptly and stare at my companion, wanting to cry but unable to manage tears. There are no words to express my change of heart. All at once it is both freeing and damning, maddening and enlightening. I have come all this way and like him, I can't do it. Jason nods.
"It's not so easy," he murmurs. "Especially once you've already taken a life."
"We should go," I say, not looking at the Veil. "I don't want to stay here if I'm not going to do it."
He raises an eyebrow at me. "And where would you propose we go?" he asks. "Seeing as we are the last witch and wizard in England?"
I shrug and stand once more, offering him my hand. I am amazed at the words that come from my mouth. It is as if someone else is speaking, someone I once was but hardly recognize now. And yet, the words are right.
"Perhaps we are not the last, but the first," I reply. He takes my hand, warm and inviting, and together we leave the chamber of death and return to the world of the living.
* * *
Chapter Endnotes: This story probably seems a bit odd, like it's missing something, since quite a lot happens before the story begins. However, this is how it came to me, this vision of Maggie Grace at the Veil, unable to walk through as she finds hope instead of death. I do not plan to write any more about this, so I'll fill you in a bit.
Maggie is the daughter of James Sirius Potter and his wife Sarah, who worked in the Department of Mysteries. The Squib was born into one of the prominent pureblood families, but they treated him poorly and eventually rejected him outright, forcing him to live in the Muggle world. He became a brilliant scientist and genetically engineered a virus targeted to the wizarding population.
Do I think Muggles would react with fear and such a prejudiced persecution? I would hope not, but this is set at least thirty years in the future, and perhaps the world does not evolve as much as we might hope.
I do hope you enjoyed this bleak look at the end of the wizarding world. If you have any other questions, please feel free to ask! Thank you for reading and reviewing!